When They Cry
by Leng-Xue
Summary: Monsters come in all Shapes and sizes, didn't you know? (She doesn't until it's too late.)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: The 1978 movie was really fun, so I wanted to put my own spin on it...with some extra spice added. Michael is basically the supernatural mystery he was in the movie-the Thorn doesn't exist here! Also, I'm on the fence on the extent of the dubcon that's going to take place.

I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

The universe is balanced. Everything is within an order that holds the very fabric of reality together, and it is rarely so lazy as to leave things incomplete.

Like Haddonfield.

It's a prime example of a perfect push and pull, an ebb and flow of time and people trapped in the perfect place, ready for the ultimate price they must pay for their stay. Myers comes, and the townspeople drive him out. Life continues, and then it cycles back. The killer, the psychopath, the Boogeyman of this quaint little settlement of cute suburban houses. The monster.

Julia holds that within the loosest terms of the word, for what is it really? A 'monster' can be anything perceived as inhuman, unfamiliar, or threatening to our mortality (or is it morality? What is the difference?). Michael Myers is a 'monster' not because he kills but because he takes so little pleasure in doing so. The very thought of a strange masked man breaking into one's home on Halloween night is the ultimate fear of a parent who leaves their teen children at home with the baby. He enters the dreams and nightmares of all, an unknown entity to the waking world.

But there are more monsters in this little pocket of space than just Michael Myers. They are connected to each other, driven together for nothing more than the shared ostracization society places upon them. It is an instinct for them as much as it is for the townspeople who shiver unconsciously as they pass, inattentive to their fear while it hangs low over their insignificant lives. The universe is so big, and they are so small. It is this knowledge they understand when death comes; the meaninglessness of their lives is the same as that of Myers' relieving them of it.

No one thinks of this outside of mourning on crisp autumn days.

Even Julia Loomis.

…

 _Run, my darling!_

…

She is an innocent, fresh-faced and young for what it was worth, innocuous against the vibrant red painted across cold wooden floorboards.

In the gloom, she can make out a shadow against the cool brown of the home. Something is there beyond sight. The blinking sirens burn in her peripherals, and when she blinks, it is gone.

"Julia!"

Dr. Samuel Loomis pants heavily over the side of the police car, electric blue eyes dashing back and forth frantically. It reminds her of some of the older ward patients damaged during the era of shock therapy—that was how he looked—damaged.

"Papa? Are you—"

Her gentle father is gone, replaced with a grieving man. Three teens had died tonight. It could easily have been her instead.

"You are going back to Warren County tonight. Your mother will be with you shortly."

"But what about you? What about Myers?" she asks. "What if something else happens?"

His lips flatten to a line. "That is for me to worry about. He is my patient, and it is my duty to retrieve him."

He bends through the open window and kisses her forehead, Julia grasping his hand briefly before he steps back.

"Officer Hardy will drive you back, my dear. Stay inside the house until either I or your mother come for you. Lock all the doors and windows."

She nods, staring at him as the officer starts the car, leaving him on the edge of that flashing, strobe-lit scene until he is a speck on the horizon. He is gone, like Laurie Strode and all the rest. She could imagine none of it had happened if she just closed her eyes.

Halloween wasn't supposed to turn out this way. Julia shouldn't have been in Haddonfield, not here where one couldn't tell man from shade. But she was. The fiend lurking on the fringes of her reality was there too—she just didn't know it.

…

 _Go, for what it is worth!_

…

At sixteen, most girls' lives are supremely fickle. Julia does not condemn her peers but neither does she partake in their usual activities. There is no time or interest in it when she has more important things to accomplish. Her mother, Mary, does not care what she does as long as her homework is finished, and her grades are excellent. That is one way to please Samuel (psychiatrist, divorcee, and now, slave driver in what little hold he retains over his daughter's life). His will is also Mary's in this at least.

And so, she whiles her days away in tedium while Haddonfield (and her father) recover. They pick up the pieces to build once again; the lingering failure over catching Myers forces them to.

Julia feels far too young and far too old at the same time. The grief does not hit her the same way it does Samuel—likely because she does not have as personal a connection to the events that took place as he does. She spares all the time she can to be with her father and misses him even when he is with her.

Myers' shadow is everywhere he looks.

"Papa, do you think they'll ever catch him?" she says, running her fingers through his graying hair. It reminds her of when she was a little girl and he did the same for her.

"I don't know. I can only hope and pray. Tomorrow, I will resume the search as well."

"You should leave it to the police," she murmurs. "There's been an alert across all of Illinois and beyond."

He doesn't answer, and she drops it, frowning. His hair is sparser than she remembers it.

"I'll bring you tea, Papa." She kisses his cheek and slides off the couch, padding to the kitchen.

She isn't such a fool as to think Myers had stopped just because there were no bodies turning up, but she can't help but hope he'd disappeared. He would fade from memory, and she'd never hear of him again. It was all so simple when she thought of it like this. Samuel would come out of his guilt-induced stupor and return to her, to Mary, who had melted just a little in the wake of her ex-husband's pain. They would heal together.

The swirling tea comforts her. She smiles to herself as she carries the warm mug, gripping it gently, running a finger down the handle.

When she turns around, it drops from her hands.

…

 _Stay away…_

…

Her cry rings through the halls of their pretty home hours after the mug shatters, after five stitches are woven into her pale skin at the hospital, after Samuel holds her tight and tells her he'll never let her go.

The dead cat hanging from the lonely, sunburnt elm in the backyard persuades her otherwise. She can see the satisfaction in Samuel's eyes as he stares upon it. He relishes every drop of blood that drips onto the cold cement, some sick measure of knowledge and awe written in those deep lines framing his gaze.

She knows he must go.

"He's trying to lure you away!" she says. "What if—what if it's a trap?"

"It is a risk I am willing to take. To rid this earth of such evil is worth anything, including my life."

"Don't _say_ that!"

She clutches his jacket and cries, really truly cries for the first time in years. Fat wet drops roll down her cheeks as Samuel pats her blond head. She's against him now, curled up into a ball. It's weak, it's pathetic, and yet, she can't help it.

"I—I'm sorry, my darling. I shouldn't have said it in such a way…I _won't_ die, I won't—"

But he cuts himself, mouth twisting because he cannot keep that promise. Myers is no easy adversary, especially to a man pushing sixty.

It takes a long time before she is willing to lift her head, sniffling back unshed tears.

"Mother will murder you first, you know. Michael Myers shouldn't get the pleasure."

He chokes out a chuckle.

…

 _O, Demon!_

…

Mary left Samuel for a reason. Many, in fact.

She had drunk herself into a stupor upon finding Samuel gone, unable to face reality without the aid of simpler vices. It is a weakness Julia finds herself despising and longing for all at once. _She_ has no escape, no hope of it, and now, it is up to her to set things right. Samuel will be fine if she wills it hard enough.

Julia goes out to clean up the cat the next day, fear gone in the bright morning sunlight. It is not as scary as it was in the night, and she feels silly for even dropping the coffee. The stitches in her foot pull tightly at the thought. She halts at the corpse, wrinkling her nose at the smell. It is grounding, in some disgusting way, and she finds herself thinking less of her absent father and more of the task at hand.

Her glare doesn't magically wrap the cat in plastic or levitate it to the garbage can. It dangles in a mindless daze, dragging her into it as she tilts her head, eying the rope knotted around its legs. It is a very deliberate gesture, and she does not fully understand it. The symbolism is nearly lost on her (English literature had never been her strong point) until she realizes that it resembles an offering. It was as if a child had strung it up like a holiday goose on Christmas Eve—the cat's edibility is questionable, but she feels a little better at having solved a portion of the mystery it offers.

She wonders then if Samuel was merely mistaken, and maybe some cruel child had simply wanted to exact a bit of vengeance for the deaths caused by Myers' escape.

Shears slice through the rope, and the body falls into the bin, black as the bag that serves as its coffin. Only the dull shine of coagulated blood winks up at her. She ties it up after a short prayer, comforted by the knowledge that the trash collectors would be there soon to take it.

The floor is a different matter. Julia takes out a bottle of bleach and pours it onto the dried mess, dashing back into the house and slamming the sliding glass door shut to keep out the stench. Her nose has been burned enough for one day.

She has never been more grateful for the garden hose after that. She sprays her toes as well as the concrete walkway, the early November heat enjoyable on her body. It makes her unbearably drowsy even though she'd just downed a whole mug of coffee. The past few days were so tragic that it should have been a crime to have such nice weather. One would associate pain and death with rain, but it seems not even the earth itself is interested in mourning.

Julia takes a great stretch, flopping back onto the sun-warmed lawn. The blades of grass are green and rich and beautiful—perfect for lying on. She rolls over onto her stomach and arms, kicking her legs up and down until lethargy takes over.

And she falls asleep.

She dreams of a man, a familiar one. In the quiet, well-worn walls of Smith's Grove, he is there among the flowers. He's not so different from his surroundings, nearly indistinguishable in her memory. It's fitting in some strange way, that he can feel so familiar and yet so alien all at once, as much a stranger as her or anyone else.

The stars roam above, reckless and wanting, aching for contact. Her nap is cut short when his eyes turn to hers.

Her clothes are drenched in sweat from the heat and mingled with a strong, unfamiliar smell—not bleach; it's something sharper, more immediate than the cleaner she'd diluted hours ago. It takes a moment to register that it's some type of antiseptic. Peroxide was always the weapon of choice in the sanitarium when patients were injured.

Her nostrils flare, and she coughs, getting to her feet. A bit of brilliant silver against the mottled orange-brown leaves catches her bleary gaze.

It's a mouse this time, pinned to the dirt and mud by the blade of a paring knife.


	2. Chapter 2

There is silence in her ears and blindness in her eyes. Everything is numb; she cannot feel her feet as they move towards the house, and her voice is unrecognizable as it leaves her throat.

"Mom?" she says.

Her fingers search frantically for the phone as she keeps her gaze on the doorway to the kitchen. The stairs are just beyond, and Mary would be walking down them soon if she had heard her.

"Mama? Are you awake yet?"

Her hand knocks the receiver of the rotary phone, and she lifts it to her ear, breath shaking as she listens.

Dial tone.

An immediate sense of relief washes over her at the low electrical hum. With feverish motions, she dials the sheriff's department. Help first and then her father. If anyone knew where Samuel was, it would be them.

"Hello? Warren County sheriff's—"

"Oh God, please, I think Mi—" she starts.

But a wave of peroxide hits her in full, and she chokes before she can get another syllable out. Saliva wells beneath her tongue. The line cuts to static, to which no amount of shaking fixes.

Her blood runs cold, colder than winter, colder than anything she's ever known.

"No, no, no…" she says desperately, and then at the doorway: "Mama? Are you there?"

Everything is pinched, warping in and out of her limited focus. She wants to vomit, to run away, to see if there's anyone who can help her. The smell is everywhere—it's sterile and as inexorable as death.

She slides a knife from the block on the counter. It's large in her small fist, and she thinks that she's more likely to hurt herself with it than anyone else. Myers liked knives too, or so she'd heard. One of the boys killed on Halloween had been tacked onto the wall like a drawing, held into place with a piece of metal suitable for carrying his weight. A thumbtack was for papers. Knives must be for people. On the stairwell, her stitches tug with pain and the reminder that this is not a dream even if it feels like one.

Julia hopes Myers is not in an artistic mood.

She is steady at the top, pushing on to the master bedroom where her mother lies in one sleep or another. Her ears re-tune themselves to the upper floor then, and there is nothing for a long, long moment until her focus shifts to soft breathing, nearly undetectable if not for the fact that it is right above her head.

The hair on her arms raise. Her back is lathed in heat from a body that is not her own, a sweltering hold that ties her there without him physically needing to.

She doesn't move and neither does he.

Sweat slicks her palm for a millisecond before her heels dig into the shaggy carpet, propelling her forward. Myers' fingers brush the back of her shirt, and when that fails, twist to catch the long strands of her sandy blond hair. Her body is crushed to his in an instant. She's like a fish out of water, a wild thing reeled in from a lake. The pain makes her so desperate that she flails by instinct rather than conscious thought. The knife turns to his belly in a last-ditch attempt, but it is cut woefully short—Myers catches her wrist in a bone-crushing grip and yanks her hair so hard she is forced to go on her toes.

"Let me go!" she screams.

Her weapon is wrested from her hand, and she thinks it's the end when the cold tip of the blade touches her throat. His hand is bare, arm covered in blue up to the elbow as far as she can see. He must have been wearing that since his escape because it is stained beyond imagination. Mary would have been appalled if she'd seen Julia's clothes in such a state.

And with some horror, she realizes this vague thought _humanizes_ him, a man who is literally about to run her through with a kitchen knife, a man who has likely killed her mother and will perhaps hunt down her father.

But Myers isn't a _thing_. She couldn't—wouldn't feel that way even if Samuel did. Myers is a living, breathing being and would remain so until the end. Whatever end that would dare come for him, that is.

The tension drops from her then. It drains down, down until there is nothing.

"If you're going to kill me, just get it over with already," she murmurs, tipping her chin back. The steel tip follows her movement, pressing once again to delicate skin. The position he'd made her take on the balls of her feet has her leaning heavily against him, one hand on the fingers in her hair and the other on his coverall sleeve.

"Come on, I don't have all day. You—don't you have other people to murder?"

It is perhaps the most foolish thing she will ever say because he stiffens and jerks her head back. The rubber of his mask scrapes her cheek as he slams the hilt of the blade against her temple, and all that remains is blinding white.

…

 _Wretch!_

…

It is hours before Julia wakes, hours still before the pounding in her skull dulls to an intermittent throb. To add to the injury, she's trussed up like a pig in the backseat of an old vehicle, blindfolded. She bites her tongue to keep from swearing whenever Myers hits a pothole. The motion jars her bruised face, and she swears he's doing it just to spite her. He must have decided to take an especially bad road, maybe for its remoteness since he hadn't bothered to tape her mouth.

He doesn't stop at all when she's awake, and even when she's asleep, she doubts he notices. All the while, in the terrible minutes that slip through her grasp, she asks why—why her? Did she do something to deserve this? Myers isn't known for sparing his victims, for playing with his food before he ate it. Why is he taking her?

Again, she wonders if he is an artist. One of those types who want to prolong the experience at their victims' expense. Samuel was wrong on certain things about Myers already. What was to say he wasn't wrong in this as well?

Several instances where they'd disagreed about Myers' behavior stick out in her mind. The one that captures her most is the dog, the poor dog in her captor's old, dilapidated house in Haddonfield. He had killed and eaten it _raw_. Its corpse had been brutalized, a mix of teeth marks and matted fur scattered among the filth on the hallway floor. The photo she'd spied at the sheriff's department probably hadn't done the scene justice. She couldn't imagine how it must have looked in real life.

She said it was an action based out of necessity (though she couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't simply stolen food). If one is hungry, they eat, and Myers simply took what was available. Samuel judged it as an act of depravity; Myers had done it because he could. There is no personal distinction of right from wrong, but he performs accordingly because he _knows_ it is wrong.

Is her kidnapping out of 'necessity' as she'd postulated before? Only time would tell.

They spend perhaps a day on the road before she's fed up with being ignored. He's kept her alive for this long, and she thinks she'll be safe for as long as it takes for them to get to their destination.

"Myers—You're Michael Myers, aren't you?" she says loudly, drowning out the deep rumble of the engine. The car doesn't sound healthy, and she feels hopeful that it might break down. "You must be. You're wearing a white mask and blue coveralls."

There is no answer, as she'd expected.

"I need to _go_. It's been some time, and I'm fit to burst."

He catches her meaning, she thinks, because the car comes to a stop a few minutes later. Next thing she knows, the ropes slide away, and the blindfold is torn off. He's staring down at her, heady evening sunlight raining down on his tall frame. She recognizes his body shape; it's the same she'd seen at the sanitarium countless times before.

They'd never had the pleasure of meeting though. Face to face.

He hauls her roughly out of the car. It's actually a pick-up truck with faded red paint and a rusty exterior. They're out in some kind of empty plain, maybe the Midwest at this point, and she looks her fill before he shoves her into the open. There is a cleaver in his hand, the idle threat of pain present in the graying dust around their feet.

There aren't any bushes nearby. She searches the horizon for one in vain before realizing he'd chosen this spot on purpose—his blank rubber features say it all. She damns him for his forward thinking.

"I'm not going unless you turn around," she tells him. "I can't go with someone watching."

He doesn't move. The staring contest that ensues is mostly one-sided as she can't really tell where his eyes are in the mask. She silently damns him again for good measure.

"Fine. Tie me back up. Maybe I'll go on the rug or something."

The moment she moves back to the truck, he jerks toward her. It's a quick motion, a blur before her eyes she's senseless to until it reaches her skin.

A stitch pops open when he drags her through the dirt screaming, blood running down her heel. His grip liquifies her upper arm, and he wrenches the bone from the socket just enough to give a clear warning.

"Okay! Okay, I'll go! For the love of God, I'll go!" she cries.

She shoves her panties down from beneath her skirt, squatting to get him to release her even a little. The adrenaline that runs through her makes it easy to ignore any possible embarrassment she might have felt. When it is done, Myers wastes no time packing her back up to continue their journey.

She doesn't let out a peep for the rest of the night. Not when he gives her bottled water and a stale convenience store sandwich or when he allows her another bathroom break. This time, she scuttles several yards out before he can grab her. Her skirt covers the essentials, thankfully, and she averts her gaze from his stony figure while doing her business.

Her arm pulses in time with her temple. He isn't considerate enough not to touch it when the ropes go back on, or perhaps he just doesn't notice. Either way, the fear retreats when he hits jagged paving, and everything hurts all over again. It's in step to the beat, to the thrum of the coolant and gasoline that runs below her.

She sees the night skies of a dozen worlds within the cloth wrapped around her eyes.

Michael Myers doesn't exist beneath any of them.

* * *

A/N: Betcha didn't see that coming! Things will be getting interesting for Julia pretty soon.

I hope you all enjoyed! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Julia thinks she will go mad when she sees the same plain (desert?) by what appears to be the same stretch of road for the hundredth time running. They should be in California by now for all the driving he's done. Or maybe he's just going in circles to confuse her. It would have been a massive waste of time to do something like that—Samuel would definitely catch up to them, along with the entire Armed Forces.

The upsetting part is it'll take them and more to catch Michael Myers. They're already on day three of this mad dash across the country, and she doesn't like thinking about what will happen if her father doesn't find her.

"You could have gotten away, you know," she says. "They couldn't find you then, but now…now, they won't rest."

She pauses before swallowing dust and old saliva.

"But this isn't about running, is it?"

Her words don't rile him, and she breathes a sigh of relief. It's safe enough to continue.

"Do you have some antiseptic? My foot might get infected."

Whether or not he truly cares about her well-being is hinged on this. If there's anything she knows about him, it is that he has peroxide. He's practically squeaky clean from all the disinfectant he pours in his wounds, no bathing required. He wears so much that she thinks the box rattling around in the bed of the truck must be full of it. It has come to the point that her poor foot aches with the reminder it is in need of medical attention whenever he applies a fresh coat.

Still, it's only one measly stitch.

Her expectations are low until they stop at the next "rest area," and she hears him rummage around in the back. Pleasantly enough, he undoes most of the setup he'd made to keep her in place, kneeling at her feet in one swift motion. All that is left is her hands, but he allows her to sit up to watch with her legs dangling out over the edge.

His fingers are calloused and rough when he tugs her shin, and she notes with horror that his entire hand easily encompasses half of the appendage. He pushes her other leg in so that it bends at the knee, to which she immediately drops her hands onto her skirt to weigh it down.

It's a strange moment. Up close, she can see his dark eyes flicker upon her fists, hideously neutral.

And then he pours half a bottle of peroxide on her foot like he's trying to melt the damn thing off.

She gasps and jerks when some of the liquid drips into the wound, but his grasp tightens, holding her in place when he turns her calf to slosh more directly onto it.

"Ow! That's enough!" she hisses. "Myers—Michael!"

He looks at her upon hearing his name, the neck of the bottle swiveling upright.

She tries something different.

"Mr. Myers…do you have a band-aid?"

Sweat beads on her brow when he doesn't move. His eyes are dark and nebulous in the shade of the truck, all-consuming and omnipotent. They would have been empty if not for those two little things. She thinks she recognizes a third, but there is no way—no way he's dragged her out there for that.

"Mr. M—"

He prods the red skin around the cut with a blunt finger and gives it one last splash, making her jaws clack together unevenly. She shuts her mouth when he pulls out a surprisingly white roll of gauze.

Julia is never so relieved to be tied up after he finishes. Everything has been thrown into question, even what she believed previously about her capture. There is a different kind of dread settling into her bones, and it makes her restless.

She wishes he would speak, that he could be more like regular serial killers. At least she'd be able to ask him what he plans to do with her.

…

 _There is no light_

…

They arrive…somewhere. She can tell before he parks, feeling the way he circles the structure rather than simply pulling over as he normally would.

It's night time, and it's _cold._

She shivers when her bare skin hits the chilled earth. For a moment, she thinks he's going to make her walk, but he slings her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Her eyelids itch behind the black scrap of cloth. It's grimy and smelly at this point, and she can't wait to take it off for good.

"I hope you know I'm not one of those babysitters," she says delicately from her upside down position. Her nose bumps against his back as he moves. "…I have more respect for those kids and their parents."

He doesn't so much as twitch. Maybe that isn't it? He isn't doing this because of anything that had happened on Halloween?

"…Are you vengeful of Papa?" she asks, softer this time. The years he'd spent in the sanitarium would be an excellent reason for revenge. Samuel was the closest to Myers even if their relationship couldn't be described that way.

Nothing there either.

He pushes open a door and deposits her roughly onto wooden stairs, lashing her wrists and ankles quickly to the banister before going off to do God knows what. Alone, Julia tries to wiggle out of her bindings, failing miserably when the twine only cuts deeper into her flesh.

She knows when to stop, when to give up. Perhaps this quality is what has been preventing her from escaping thus far. To be fair, he'd practically woven a spider's web in the back seat of the truck. Not even Houdini could have gotten out of that thing.

Her whole body is relaxed by the time Myers returns, limp and careless under his probable scrutiny.

"Do you like seeing me tied up or something?" she mumbles sarcastically. "This hurts."

Jokes aside, it's a veritable minefield talking to him. One never knows what they might say to tick him off. She turns her head in his general direction and listens to his slow, steady steps, arm and temple throbbing mercilessly.

"Untie me, please? I promise I won't run."

These words don't have the intended effect.

Instead, she's met with a faint sensation along her forearm.

"Mr. Myers?" she asks, scooting back from the stimuli. It follows her, but pressure reveals that the object is cold and sharp—he's running the blade of a knife over her skin.

And her mind freezes all over again.

Dimples form along pale, clumping follicles. Her flesh contracts, shrinking in on itself as if to escape the threatening rasp of steel. One false move may spell the end. As if to illustrate this, he turns one arm out to reveal the baby-soft underside, untouched by sun or wind or even a man.

She's like a doll in his grasp, a plaything. The tip runs over her wrist, caressing the artery as it pounds out a staccato rhythm. It matches the hum of the smooth metallic scraping, and fake hair brushes her fingers as he leans down to listen—he's a musician, a composer breathing life into a masterpiece, and she's his instrument, tailored to perfection for this purpose alone.

She's the greatest symphony he's ever heard, the sweetest and most precious. His breathing quickens when he moves up her arm, taking his bow to her chest. Warm fingers latch to her slender jaw so he can bare her throat to count measures. Each ring of corded cartilage that passes beneath him must feel like salvation, his saving grace and victory tied into one.

The enormity of her situation finally crashes down upon her. Myers hadn't captured her for revenge against anybody, he'd wanted her for _this_. For whatever this distorted form of foreplay could be called.

She wonders how long this has been going on. Myers is known to fixate on things, to develop purpose and meaning from the life he's lived in his early years. His obsession with Haddonfield is a glaring example but perhaps not the only one. She doesn't remember the first time they'd seen each other, let alone how Myers could have had any idea about who she was outside of that she is Samuel's daughter.

But maybe that is enough. Michael Myers doesn't need a reason for the things he does.

He senses her distance, or maybe the way she does not exude fear because he stops abruptly. She doesn't give him the music he desires.

Julia doesn't find any beauty in his actions. If it's that he's looking for, he's come to the wrong place.

"Untie me. Please," she says more firmly. The blade is gone, and risking it seems right to break the tension, the convulsion taking place within her innards. Every place he's touched burns. Even the areas he hasn't feel wrong, mistreated, manhandled.

It is with some surprise that he does as she asks. The only difference is that he lingers longer than he should. Myers is anything if not precise in all he does, and she takes notice when he drops her on the bed upstairs just a moment too late, when his heat invades her personal space just a smidge longer than it should. The peroxide has faded for once, his natural scent shining through on the late evening air. It disturbs her in ways she can't describe. There are layers to him she can't decipher, and more rack up with each interaction she is forced to partake in. There is still a mild disconnect between expectation and reality, and the reminder that he is human fails to bridge it.

Julia tries to think of it as another piece of him that is being thrust on her but fails. The myth he's shrouded in has already started to crumble.

She reaches for the blindfold to rub her eyes, peeling it off when she doesn't hear any sign of him. Somehow, he'd managed to close the door noiselessly.

She's completely alone for the first time in days, and the perfect silence does not escape her. What's better is that he has elected to grant her freedom. Her chafed wrists are pounds lighter without their usual restraints. Cool fingers soothe the raw skin as she scans the bare room.

There is no furniture other than the bed, and she notes that it is a hardy set; the panels are bolted to the wall and floor. It is a smart precaution but ultimately unnecessary. She doubts she could use any of the pieces as a weapon even without the fastenings. A barricade maybe, but the wood is too large and heavy to be viable as a tool against Myers.

He certainly had enough time to do this prior to kidnapping her. Had he originally come here to elude the police?

She doesn't bother to test the door and lies on the mattress, settling in as comfortably as she can. The blanket is warm, the pillow comfortable upon her weary head. This is a poor substitute for her real bed, but she's far luckier than she might have been. This night is already much better than those in the truck.

Meager cracks of moonlight peep through the planks covering her window. White closet doors gleam back at her, empty, but closed.

It's silly.

She feels a measure of safety knowing nothing can get her now.

* * *

A/N: The truth of the matter reveals itself! Thanks for reading, everyone :)


	4. Chapter 4

The sun has only barely risen when she wakes.

She can tell because the light is pale and weak. It's loathe to share its heat, and she can sympathize because she spares none of her own with her drafty surroundings. Myers had done her dirty with the living arrangements, as preemptive as this all must have been. North American winters could be quite cold even if the past few days hadn't been an indication of that.

Cursing, she buries herself under the covers further, sleep eluding her all the while. She hasn't had a night of uninterrupted rest for days, and now that she does, it's squandered on something stupid like insomnia. Things can't be any worse unless Myers is standing by her bed at that very moment. She checks just to be sure, comically. It goes without saying she's not in the mood to face him. She'd never look him in the eye again if she could have it her way.

They say wild animals are excellent at sensing fear. Julia hates to think of what he would do if she tried to avoid eye contact. She's been far too free with her emotions already.

Five minutes of tossing and turning hinders more than helps, and she relinquishes her scheme of falling back asleep.

She wraps the blanket around herself, springing to the dusty floor like a gymnast. She's surprisingly sprightly considering the early hour and the smashed shape her body has taken from the floor of the truck. It had accepted her, and she'd been molded and home-grown as if she were in the womb again, only it was metal, not flesh that had housed her. Perhaps she'd been changed by it.

The closet reveals no masked murderers (or other nightmares), and she leaves it open defiantly as if it would somehow discredit Myers' particular brand of fear by doing so. It's an exercise in power, a marking of territory in this battle of wills.

They'd barely arrived, and she is already losing her mind.

Sticking her tongue out at the closet, she marches to the foot of the bed to test the bolts. Myers has left her little to work with, but something is always better than nothing. If push comes to shove, a bolt may still be a weapon. Half an hour goes by testing all of the studs until she concludes it will be impossible to remove one unless she can find a tool to wrench them loose. Most have been screwed in so tightly that they've dented the brackets they're mounted to.

She's sure Myers had done it himself. The warped metal is not the only clue—the fastenings are lined up with the legs of the bed, bolts spaced perfectly apart. Every bit of it screams of his work, of his obsessive tendencies, of the strength he's already used on her. There is not a thing out of place in this cruel fantasy.

It makes her frown.

Next is the window, which is boarded up from the outside. She pokes the dark slats from within a hatched insect screen, heaving a sigh. He'd taken out the glass in advance, probably thinking she'd try to break it.

Her mattress yields nothing either. One body slam reveals it's not even built with springs.

Julia lets the morning come after that, brooding on her next move. The door almost clicks open without her noticing. She lifts her head to gaze at Myers, then snuggles back into her cocoon.

"Do you know what the term 'brown study' means?" she asks blithely. "It's an old phrase, an idiom, in fact. I think it's relevant to the situation at hand, since you've broken me out of one."

She doesn't move until he draws closer, tensing beneath her flimsy cover. "You're always in a brown study too—like now."

There is no point in running, in fighting. The ever-present blade is in his hand. It's unnecessary, she thinks, unless he's come to repeat last night's performance.

When his body does not come down on hers, and his rough fingers remain at his sides, she peers up. It's just a glance, a flicker through tawny lashes.

The stretch of pink below the bottom of the mask reveals cut, iron muscles anchored to the top of his collarbone. They flex briefly before she's attacked by the sight of faint wisps of dark chest hair peeking out from unbuttoned blue cloth. He's not wearing the usual black tee, which is likely why she feels immeasurably less secure as the seconds limp by.

She averts her gaze when the corner of the blanket is peeled away. His grip is firm and demanding, vise-like when she does not move as he wishes. She's all obedience then, crawling closer to prevent her arm from being skinned when he lifts her over his shoulder.

The stains on his filthy back are a great deal more faded, and the fabric is stiff, wrinkled in some places, smooth in others. It's been beaten with soap and water and left out to dry in the night. Maybe he'd done his shirt later—if that's the only reason why he isn't wearing it, she can breathe easy.

Outside, he takes her around the back of the house. She can see the faint tire tracks of the truck and his footprints from carrying her in the shallow mud.

The land is less barren than she thought. It's rich with life and humidity despite the upcoming winter. Dew catches on the hems of Myers' coveralls, leftover from evening shade and ambient warmth. It beads and shines on his boots, and she cannot help but pout at how easily he crushes the vegetation underfoot as he walks on. He's destroying the little green that thrives, battling against the harsh weather with all it can give.

For the most part, the property is surrounded by dry grasses. The few tangible spots of enduring color are drowned out by golden fields for miles around to the cusp of every horizon she can see. Even the small copse of trees shielding the yard is thick with grass long overdue for cutting.

She should have known Myers would pick a place like this. There couldn't possibly be civilization anywhere nearby.

He sets her down in front of a dented oil drum next to a well with a few articles of clothing piled atop the edge. They're bright and innocently pastel against the gray stone.

It's girls' clothes, complete with a sweater, skirt, and underwear.

She flushes and pales simultaneously at the implication, pulling against his grip in some sad attempt at getting away.

"Please, there's really no need—" she says.

But his fingers constrict, and she whimpers, feeling nerves and bone numb under the pressure. It's just enough, always just enough. A bit more, and her arm would snap like a twig. He yanks her towards the drum, raising the knife to the front of her blouse.

"Fine! I get it!"

She ceases struggling, nearly slicing the back of her other hand open when she moves to drag the collar over her head. Air rushes over her abused skin as the shirt hits the ground. The pain lingers though he's two steps back, head tilted in a way she's never seen. How he'd moved so quickly is beyond her, but she shoves the scrambled thought away, nails scraping artlessly at the skirt zipper in an agonizing motion until she manages to get it loose enough to slip the silky thing off. Her bra and panties are painfully white, shameful in their simplicity under the glassy stare of this man, the first who has ever seen her in a state of undress. She's sure he's not looking _at_ her, perhaps he hasn't even from the beginning. There's no focus within the holes of the mask.

"Don't look?" she begs, "Please?"

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

But for all his bleak silence and unresponsiveness, he fails to hide one thing—

The perversion. It's thick, suffocating, and it permeates her pores.

Myers doesn't do things by halves. He likes his hunts perfect, he likes her reeking of tears and embarrassment, standing before him half-naked in the outback of some prairie in the middle of nowhere. The whole package, from the mussed hair and grimy feet to the vivid pink of blood blooming within pale skin, is the mainstay among the rugged grace of their surroundings. It's a feast for his senses, and she is right because he _is_ a wild animal. This is the proof.

She's the root of it all, the incitement of this messy affair. Myers might be perverse, but if he didn't have her, none of this would matter, and he would have remained as empty and bottomless as he always has been since Smith's Grove.

One tendon twitches against the knife in answer.

Shakily, she unclasps her bra, flesh pebbled from cold. Her panties drop next. The curled, blond tuft makes her flush harder, and she climbs hurriedly into the barrel, ignoring the stinging slap of icy water. Her teeth chatter as she sloshes water over yellow bruises, lungs pulling in and out frantically. The cold makes her muscles seize—it's shocking after all she's had to endure. She fights to breathe despite her head being above water, despite the fact that Myers is standing a polite distance away.

Once she acclimatizes, she grabs the bar of soap perched precariously on the rim of her makeshift tub and treats herself to a thorough scrub down. She's going to smell nice and be clean and show him this doesn't matter. He hasn't fazed her. He won't.

When she's done, she goes straight to the new clothes, flinging them on and ignoring the way they soak up loose water. She wrings her hair a few times and dribbles as much as she can down the back of his coveralls when he picks her up to get back to the house.

It's official. She hates him now.

…

 _Where you are_

…

All men are fallible. They're mortal, they get old and die the same as everyone else.

That doesn't explain how Myers survived being shot six times, but she feels a twinge of satisfaction counting the holes in his sorry suit.

Julia puts her head on the kitchen table, hunching inwards to conserve heat as he opens a can of pre-made ravioli. The bandaged arch of her foot rasps steadily against the opposing calf, fresh and spotless. Myers is meticulous about this too, and she wonders how all the doctors had him so wrong.

Countless medical professionals had been called in to diagnose him alongside Samuel. None of them had it right.

The blind leading the blind, sifting through ignorance as if it were Truth.

She stares at his back, switching feet as he jabs a plastic fork into the cold dish—polite for his eating habits. There is a tenseness to his shoulders, and his head tilts as if to remedy it.

She doesn't understand.

The meal is short. Supervised, Julia does nothing but eat, the lull of gauze and warmth adding a sleepy heft to the sauce on her tongue. It's concerning that her guard is capable of dropping so low with Myers beside her, but she manages to forgive the transgression, pattering her toes across the linoleum to liven things up. The sound wakes her enough to alert her to Myers' attention.

His head is still in the same position, bent 45 degrees to a side, eyes centered on her.

New developments are always bad. The bath is the most major on the list of transgressions. Hadn't he…done this as well? While she was stripping?

Julia jumps when Myers stands, chair screeching as it is thrown back.

Callused digits land, feather-light, on her thighs before swiveling beneath them, taking their weight to lift her onto the table. She's spread out like a meal, back flat against the cherry surface. A squeak falls from her lips when her legs fall apart, and he jams his waist into the gap, a hand on either side to keep her there.

This is different from the other times he's grabbed her. The ferocity dwindles sharply even though she knows now that the perversion had never truly gone. It's like seeing him again for the first time, feeling him against her—and failing to scream, to truly _fear_ for her life though she's had a taste of what he can do. Her body is shaking, jaws grinding together as she tries to repress it, to gather enough of herself to focus on him.

There is desire, she thinks, hidden in the glow of the budding galaxies speckling his eyes.

(Michael Myers knows desire?)

Emotion, a joy, a gift, a treasure taken for granted, does not seem to escape Myers in this moment. She wonders what he is feeling as he holds her in this position. It is not so sweet as the intimacy implies, yet not so vulgar either. He holds her so simply that it cannot be.

But she feels his fingers flex, brushing a tender length of calf and shin, continuing his symphony (appending hers). They are trapped in time, in the convergence of space and worlds. No dream as heady may overcome this reality. To survive, she must learn to share.

 _They_ must.

And he trails higher, sailing uncharted seas.

* * *

A/N: Cliffhanger! What will happen to poor Julia? Will she ever figure out why Michael picked her specifically?

Until next time, everyone! Thanks for dropping by


End file.
